Trash
by spacenarwhal94
Summary: Set during Star Wars: The Force Awakens. This story follows Captain Phasma after she is thrown into the trash compactor.


Trash

By Dakota Hommes

As Captain Phasma fell down the chute, she wasn't thinking about her imminent death in the Starkiller Base's trash compactor. She was thinking about how she had just committed treason against the one thing she had ever cared about. A traitor, a Wookie, and some old jackass had held a blaster to her head and told her to lower the shields. She complied, like a weakling coward, and now the First Order's greatest weapon was doomed because of her.

She landed in a pool of putrid muck, so far decomposed that it was unidentifiable by either sight or smell, but completely disgusting all around. Part of her didn't want to get up. Part of her wanted to just lie among the refuse until she died. Maybe the trash compactor was where she belonged. She heard the engines turn on and the walls start creeping in. Phasma slowly stood up, because the First Order never trained her to be a quitter.

They did, however, train her in all of the Starkiller's systems, including the janitorial ones. The walls closing in didn't worry her in the slightest. She knew about the emergency shut off located in the center of the room. She moved off her garbage pile so that her feet were on the floor. The liquid filth almost came up past her waist. She hooked her right foot into the lever on the floor, pulled up on it, and fell backwards into the waste. She was covered from head to toe in the base's trash, but at least the compactor had shut off, and the exit door was now unlocked.

Phasma opened the door slowly. She did not want any of her troops to see her dripping in filth, but she needed at least one of them for her plan to work. The hallway was empty. After a moment, a pilot left the bathroom and headed towards the hangar. _He should be reprimanded_ , she thought. But not by her.

"You there," she called. The pilot turned to face her. He stiffened a little at the sight of Phasma's chrome armor, now covered in garbage.

"Yes, sir?"

"Come here." The pilot stood outside the trash compactor. Phasma looked both ways down the hall. They were alone. Everyone was outside fighting the Resistance troops that she had let in. "I need you to trade helmets with me. My communicator's broken."

"Um, sir, the armory has spares."

"There's no time! Give me yours."

He took off his helmet for her and she saw how young he was. She didn't like the way that made her feel. She didn't like it at all. Phasma took off her own chrome helmet and gave it to him, and she put on his black one. For a moment, she stared into her own chrome helmet on his head, wondering how she had fallen so low so fast. Then she took his blaster and shot him in the head point blank.

Phasma quickly traded her uniform for his in the hallway, which was all the more difficult because she was shaking. She threw his body – in her armor – into the trash compactor. Theoretically, the trash compactor would kick in later and they would find parts of him and make up their own story: the Resistance scum killed the great Captain Phasma and threw her body in the garbage. Or maybe they'd be able to identify the body. Or maybe everybody on the base would die before any of that could happen.

Phasma ran towards the hangar. She passed a group of troopers going the other direction down the hall, with no idea that they were walking past their fearsome leader. She wondered if they would be the ones to find the body in the trash compactor.

Thankfully for her, there was one TIE Fighter left in the hangar, presumably the one waiting for the very pilot she killed. She hadn't actually flown one herself since basic training, but it all came back to her like a bad habit. Systems on. Engines start. Safety release. She lifted the ship off the ground, out the flight deck, and she was off.

The sun, which was being drained to power the great weapon, was almost completely dark. The sky above the Starkiller Base was crisscrossed with fighters on both sides. Phasma had nothing to do but pick a direction and hope she somehow stayed out of the crossfire.

The fighter shook as it received a series of hits. An X-Wing had chosen her as its target. They were right on her tail. She strafed right and went into a dive to lose them, but another TIE Fighter quickly shot down her follower. She watched it crash into the ground below.

"This is J-19." The voice on the intercom startled her. "Be more careful next time, K-20."

"Affirmative," she said back, "Thanks."

This was one of her soldiers. The same ones she had just exposed to the Resistance. The ones she had shot in the face and thrown in the trash. They had saved her life once again. And yet, she had no choice but to leave them.

The five nearest planets all had the Starkiller weapon aimed directly at them. If the First Order had their way, they would be obliterated. But if the Resistance won the battle, as Phasma suspected they would now that the shields were down, the five planets would survive another day. She'd take those odds. She needed to land and ditch the fighter quickly. Each one has a built-in tracking device, and if the First Order command guessed what she had done, they'd be after her. So Phasma headed for the closest planet, betting that the First Order would lose the Starkiller Base in time. _And if they win, then maybe that's fine too_.

The planet revealed its finer details as she descended through the atmosphere. There were mountains, forests, and lots of ocean waters. She spotted a clearing in the woods and landed there. Even in near dark, the world was incredibly green. It was shocking after so much time stuck inside the base's muted tones. She didn't like it.

Phasma exited the ship. The climate was more humid than she had anticipated. By way of disguise, she took off her helmet and flight suit, stripped down to thermal underwear. Alone and aimless, she picked a direction and started putting distance between herself and the TIE Fighter's tracking device.

She felt exposed without any armor, and completely naked without her chrome. The blaster seemed to offer little comfort. She looked up in the sky, and saw that the system's sun was still faintly burning. The Resistance had won. Phasma would not be destroyed by the weapon she helped create. But the First Order had other bases, and soon they would send someone to find her. It could even be Ren, if he survived the attack. Maybe killing Phasma the traitor would be the last test of his training as a Sith lord. She knew that would be a deserved death, but even so, she wouldn't go without a fight. The only question was, what would she do until then?

After walking for hours through the forest, she heard an unnatural noise up ahead. Soon, she noticed pulsing lights, like a beacon of some kind. She readied her weapon and proceeded carefully. She got closer and felt like a fool. It was the beat of music and the lights of a dance floor. It was coming from an opening in the mossy ground. "ROSLOW'S PUB" was carved into a rock above the entrance.

Phasma tucked her blaster into her pants and walked down the steps into the bar. The air was filled with fifty different kinds of smoke. There was a band in the corner, but they seemed more concerned with insulting someone near them than actually playing music. Phasma quickly found an empty table along the wall and sat down. She needed a plan. She didn't even know what she was doing here. Maybe she could find someone to give her a ride somewhere else, but why? What would she do there? She didn't know how to live outside of the Order.

"What can I get you to drink, Ma'am?" asked a server droid. Phasma realized she didn't even have any credits for a drink, let alone a ride off the planet.

"No, thanks. Maybe later."

"Suit yourself." The droid wandered away.

She looked towards the bar. Every seat was filled, and by the way they were talking to each other, it seemed like every one of them had a strong opinion. Maybe there was a First Order supporter somewhere in there. Unlikely considering they had planned on destroying this rock, but she was betting there was at least one. She could strike up a conversation and convince them that she was on a top-secret mission. That would get her farther away from here. She might even be able to commandeer the ship too.

A seat opened up at the bar, and Phasma moved to fill it. She bumped into a Devaronian on the way.

"Hey there, honey," he said, "You looking for work?"

"Not from you," she said. She wasn't used to being condescended like this. In the First Order, the only ones who talked down to her were Ren and Hux, but there were thousands who looked up to her and did her will.

"Shame. You've got a pretty face. Let me know if you change your mind. I'm always looking to hire more girls." He winked at her. She walked to the bar.

"What'll it be?" asked the bartender.

"Uh, just water, please."

"You come into my bar just to order water and listen to the band? You gotta order a real drink, lady."

On the other side of the room, someone was yelling at the band a little louder than before. It was a tall Mirialan shouting about something. Everyone in the room got a little quieter. Realizing he had an audience, he turned to the room.

"…And the next time you feel someone watching you, it will be the Pest! We are one and we are everywhere! The Pest has filled the gaps in our soul with its power, which we will use to grow in strength and wealth!"

"Shut up, Pest!" they started shouting. Some threw drinks at him.

"Come, my brothers and sisters!" he yelled, "We have worlds to conquer!"

As he left, what seemed like half the bar followed after him, maybe twenty or thirty people. Suddenly he didn't seem like such a crazy old preacher. With only a moment's hesitation, Phasma got up too, and followed the followers of the Pest out of Roslow's Pub. She needed a direction to go, and this man seemed to have that. She wanted someone to tell her what to do. More than that, she wanted to kick some ass. If the Pest could offer her all of those things, she would gladly follow.


End file.
